Marco stood in front of the mirror at Rosehill Inn, adjusting the collar of his black shirt.
Mila sat across from him at a corner table, already two sips into a deep red wine.
She looked exactly how he remembered—stunning, confident, and dangerous.
"You cleaned up nice," she said, swirling her glass.
"I'm not here for compliments," Marco replied.
"Still sharp," she smirked.
"I missed that."
The server arrived.
Marco ordered simple—grilled trout, no wine.
Mila raised a brow.
"No drink?"
"I need a clear head."
She leaned in, smile fading just a little.
"This isn't about getting back together, you know."
"Then why are you here?"
She didn't answer right away.
"Because I heard about her. Elena. And I was curious."
Marco's jaw clenched.
"You came all this way because of gossip?"
"I came because you moved on," Mila said, voice lower now.
"And maybe I'm not used to that."
Marco leaned forward.
"I did move on. And I'm not going backward."
Mila looked at him—really looked.
And something in her eyes flickered.
"Then I guess we're done."
"We were done a long time ago," Marco said quietly.
She raised her glass one more time.
"To endings."
He didn't toast back.
Back at the cottage, Elena and Talia sat wrapped in a single blanket, legs tucked underneath them, a bottle of wine between them.
"Think he's surviving?" Elena asked.
"Probably gritting his teeth through the whole thing," Talia laughed.
They both sipped.
The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore.
It was warm. Safe.
"You ever think this is weird?" Elena asked.
"What?"
"This.
Us.
Him.
All of it."
Talia thought for a moment.
"All the time. But weird doesn't mean wrong."
Their eyes met.
Elena set her glass down.
Talia reached out, brushing a curl behind Elena's ear.
"You're dangerous," Elena whispered.
"So are you," Talia said.
And then… a kiss.
Soft.
Lingering.
No thunder, no lightning. Just the quiet thrum of something real.